


Marry Me

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: In which our two favorite dorks ask each other to marry them, over and over again.





	Marry Me

"Marry me."  
The first time he says it, it's an accident. It slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself, rolls off his tongue and plunks to the deck at Queequeg's feet. Ishmael stares at it for a while, unable to meet Queequeg's eyes so instead occupying himself with glaring down the offender.  
Queequeg gives a wry chuckle, wraps an arm around Ishmael and pulls him close, kisses his forehead.  
"Already did."  
Ishmael's face grows hot, but he doesn't say anything.  
  
Some nights later Pip plays his tambourine on the deck, and the crew dances round him on the forecastle, celebrating a successful hunt. They've just cleaned down the ship and it all but sparkles and shines in the lamplight like a palace ballroom, all aglow with that brilliant soft orange light.  
Ishmael sits off to the side, laughing and watching his crewmates dance. He claps along to Pip's playing and a warmth bubbles up through him along with the sweet bite of rum.  
Queequeg dances into his view, grabs his hands and starts to pull him to his feet.  
"No, no, no, I don't--"  
" _Dance_ with me," he says, and Ishmael doesn't know if it's the lamplight twinkling in Queequeg's eyes or the buzz of alcohol that gets him up, but he complies. They twirl around each other and Ishmael just _knows_ that people are staring but by now he's a little too tipsy, a little too dizzy, a little too enraptured to care.  
Pip's music winds down and so does the dance, and Queequeg gives Ishmael a final twirl before wrapping his arms tight around him and leaning in so his lips brush his ear.  
"Marry me?" he whispers, and Ishmael shakes his head with mock exasperation and buries his face into Queequeg's chest.  
"You are _ridiculous_ ," he murmurs, but he smiles against Queequeg's warmth and doesn't let go till the heat in his cheeks dies down. "But okay."  
  
It becomes a sort of inside joke between them, a secret no one else understands, repeated to each other with a tenderness and endearment and healthy sense of irony. Sometimes Ishmael will tell Queequeg a story, all theatrical and whimsical and oh-so-obnoxious, and when it concludes Queequeg will laugh and clap and pull Ishmael into a kiss and ask him again. Or Queequeg would be humming to himself, singing below his breath with that soft, deep voice in a language Ishmael doesn't understand but loves hearing all the same. Ishmael will come up beside him and take his hand and say, "marry me," with more sincerity than he'd ever thought possible.  
It's a little ridiculous, but they do it anyway.  
  
When things get worse, it doesn't go away. As the _Pequod_ trails her inexorable way to her ever-elusive target, it becomes a quiet reassurance, a comfort, a promise.  
When Queequeg falls ill, Ishmael doesn't leave his side in the steerage where he lies. He sits beside him and talks to his sleeping form, and when he runs out of things to say he squeezes Queequeg's hand and fights back tears and chokes out, "marry me?"  
And when he recovers, Queequeg holds Ishmael while he cries, kisses the crown of his head, whispers "yes, yes," over and over till morning comes.  
When lightning sets the three masts ablaze with white fire Ishmael grips Queequeg's hand, terrified. Queequeg doesn't let him go, puts on a brave face till the storm finally abates, till the ruined sails are cast off to the wind, flapping like albatross feathers against the night. He reassures him, voice gentle, tells him it will be alright. "Still have to marry you, right?"  
  
After the first day of the chase closes, Ishmael and Queequeg find each other alone. Most everyone else rests after the day's exertion, but the two of them have done nothing but watch from afar with bated breath and a sinking feeling that they both already know how this will end, and so they are wide awake with their fears and wants.  
Ishmael is shaking when he takes Queequeg's hand. He leans against him, their bodies pressed and tangled together, listens to his steady heartbeat thudding in his chest. His tears stain Queequeg's shirt.  
"If--" his voice catches in his throat. "If something should go wrong tomorrow..."  
Queequeg shifts, pulling back to look at Ishmael. He tilts his head up to look at him.  
Ishmael gives a weak smile.  
"Would you--" his voice comes out small. He shakes his head, tries again. "Would you do me the honor of marrying me?" The corners of his mouth curl up. "One more time."  
Queequeg smiles down at him, presses his forehead to his. He kisses him, long and soft and unhurried. Ishmael can barely hear his murmured answer above the wind and waves, but he already knows it anyway.  
" _Yes_."


End file.
